


Thirteen

by Biokinetic



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Be gentle, Blood and Gore, Dark Peter, Holy moley you gone dark Peter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mercenary Peter Parker, Mercenary Wade Wilson, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biokinetic/pseuds/Biokinetic
Summary: Peter Parker ceased to exist shortly after being bitten by a radioactive spider. HYDRA broke him and then rebuilt him as the assassin/mercenary Thirteen. As time goes and lines are drawn will Thirteen continue down his dark path or can he be redeemed.Slow build to Peter/Wade pairing.





	1. It's Only

He finds it harder to reconnect to his body after every session. Things that twinge, things that should worry him because he  _ can’t feel that anymore and that’s probably  _ **_really really_ ** _ a bad thing _ . They did something to him- Hydra. There is no question in his hazy mind that he is broken beyond repair. There’s no coming back from the things that he has done.Things that have been done to him. Things that have ripped apart and dissolved his sense of right and wrong. Dissolved all that he was and what he strove to be.

 

But… listless brown eyes drift down to the twin stumps trembling where the middle and ring finger of his left hand used to sit. Unassuming and  _ whole _ only yesterday  _ or was it the day before- _ his hand is now disfigured and he can feel the twinge but the answering rush of pain is strangely absent. 

 

The cold on his back and seeping through his thighs assures him that he is still grounded. Still a part of the here and now and not dissociating to the extent he has trained his mind to during the sessions themselves.He leans forward and watches intently as he folds his remaining fingers in and presses the stumps into the cold cement of the floor and feels an electric  _ zing _ snap up his arm all the way up to behind his eyeballs and down through his groin.

 

His whole arm jerks and he gasps but then chokes because.... Because there is  _ no pain and is he even awake. _

 

_ Is he even real anymore. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


In a distant part of his mind Thirteen is aware that what he is doing makes him a bad person. As he halfheartedly chases after that thought his heart rate begins to race until the collar around his neck shrieks a warning that chases out any rational thought, leaving room for nothing but  _ terror  _ and then his body is jerking with the voltage coursing through until his knees give out. Suddenly his palms are slapping wetly in blood and the sticky warmth is soaking through the fabric of his pants. 

 

Wide, dead eyes stare up at him accusingly from the fresh body below him. 

 

_ Young.  _ His victim can’t be much older than he is.

 

Thirteen blinks and allows the haze of awareness to drift a little, heartbeat slowly calming. He stands and lifts his head from  _ what have I done  _ to stare calmly ahead at the double sided mirror. His victim’s blood is the only sound in the silence, dripping from his fingertips to plop wetly onto its owner’s rapidly cooling cheek.

 

“Good job Thirteen.” 

 

And he knows what he is done is  _ bad bad bad  _ but he also knows that wherever he was before where he had the power to make decisions about bad or good no longer exists. He is alone and he exists and will continue to exist until his body is thrown away.

 

* * *

  
  


One hour can seems like a year when there is absolute sensory deprivation. Nothing except for his measured breaths and the gentle cold of the floor that prevents him from ever really being comfortable… being  _ warm. _

 

And now multiply that to two hours. To a day and then a week and then on the twelfth day you are snapped to awareness by a hiss in the piercing darkness that makes your heart race. The smell of rotting eggs fills the room as the collar shrieks a warning and then you’re seizing and drifting into unconsciousness simultaneously.

* * *

                                                                                                                   


 

Thirteen snaps to awareness around the same time the man in the opposite chair does. The room is sterile and white, fluorescent lights blinding. There is a knife placed on the floor an equal distance between their chairs and the other man notices a fraction of a second sooner than him.

 

The stranger has grabbed the hilt and so of course he grabbed the blade. He knows it has gone deep into his palm of his already  _ fucked  _ left hand but that’s fine. Pain was a shitty friend that he left behind a long time ago. 

 

Thirteen knows struggling to gain control of the blade is fruitless and sweeps out a leg, wrapping it behind the other man’s leg and following him down to the floor. He knows now that though he may have lost the initial battle his chances have greatly increased for surviving to see another day.

 

His opponent begins to make high, desperate noises as Thirteen quickly releases his hold on the blade to wrap his hands around the other man’s wrists. It immediately becomes obvious that though he has also been given some enhancements, the other man is does not have the equivalent to his level of strength and the blade is slowly but surely lowered towards his heaving chest. 

 

“No...STOP”He whimpers out and Thirteen feels something sharp and tangible cry out in the back of his consciousness that stays his hands for about a split second and time seems to slow.

 

His eyes are drawn from where the blade is lowering between the collective of their shaking hands to the stranger’s face contorted in desperation and terror and feels his own chest swell in  _ regret _ . 

 

Then he is lowering the blade quickly and directly into the man’s heart and he feels the body buck below him once, twice, and then there is silence and everything feels so  _ empty _ . 

 

“Good job Thirteen.”

 

* * *

  
  


When the rooms he wakes in start to have furniture he is confused and feels  _ older pieces of  _ **_him_ ** start to stir each time before the collar faintly beeps in warning. It gets easier and easier to be exposed to more objects that he remembers from what feels like a past life and then apply them to the horrors that are  _ his life now. _

 

It forces him to adapt and do things he never believed possible. Things like killing a woman who woke up with him armed with a gun while he had nothing but his senses and speed. The room was reminiscent of a memory that drifted close to the wall he had erected to keep from loosing himself completely. Wooden chair and table. Photos of nameless people framed and tastefully displayed on white walls. The wooden chair leg helped and though she was no vampire she still died when the makeshift stake was forced through her chest into her heart as she clawed desperately at his face.

 

As time passes (though he loses track of hours and days sometimes… sometimes it seems like he loses track of weeks) he finds himself placed in different rooms in different scenarios where it isn’t practices in survival but practices in obedience. 

 

Learning that when the distorted voice in the wall says  _ stand _ it means  _ stand until told otherwise _ . Even if that otherwise isn’t given until six hours later. Thirteen can barely recall, but he does know that a time existed where pain and the fear of pain was one of the greatest motivators in his life. Now that pain no longer exists for him,  _ isolation  _ has taken its place. 

 

Isolation as punishment looms over his head constantly and the phrase “Good job Thirteen” has become as God acknowledging someone screaming his name on their knees in supplication.

 

So when the voice greets him as a panel in the concrete wall of his cell opens he rises. His heart beats evenly and face, as always, expressionless. 

 

What walks in the door is a man with no visible weapons wearing a crisp black suit and a smirk. Trailing behind are two men wearing white lab coats.

 

Thirteen stands calmly while the man circles him and eventually shoves him to his knees.

 

“So this is the spider one?  God what did you do to his _hand_?” The man chortles. “How the hell is he supposed to spin webs with missing fingers?”

 

One of the scientists clears his throat with a look of disapproval as Thirteen watches in his peripheral. 

 

“Mr. Zimmerman. The amputation of his fingers was done to test if his regenerative capabilities were affected by the enhancement serum. It in no way compromises any of his effectiveness.”

  
  
“Serum 13, right? What happened to the other Thirteens?”Suit questions, stopping in front of him to crouch down.

 

“With as many batches as we have been tasked with improving at this facility, we always use natural elimination until we are left with the most quality product for our employers.” The scientist intones with a hint of distaste. “This is Thirteen, the  _ only  _ Thirteen.”

  
  
“Natural selection?”

  
  
“We put them in a room and the better, stronger one is the end product.” The shorter scientist still lingering near the door panel says dryly, eyeballing Thirteen distrustfully.

 

Suit whistles and eyeballs him with raised brows. “Tough life, kid. How long has he been here?”

  
  
“You don’t have the clearance for that.”

 

The man blows out a breath and stands up, turning confidently to the scientists. “Alright let’s sign and shake on it and get that bitch dead, then.”

  
  
After they’ve filed out and shut the panel so it is flush with the wall again the voice intones “sit” and so he rocks back against the wall and slides down to sit and stare down at his maimed hand. 

 

"Good job Thirteen"  



	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short update. Trying to stay invested and not let myself get distracted with other fic ideas.

It isn't hard finding his newest target. The employer his services had been loaned out to had also hired the distraction for the night.

The event had attracted so many prominent figures Thirteen was surprised his handlers had not assigned him "bonus" targets on the side. It would certainly be no hardship.

The assassin cocked his head thoughtfully from where he clung to the ceiling, black spandex clad figure tucked unseen behind some swanky red velvet curtain that housed an elegant two story window. _Elegant security hazard_.

On all sides of the room various bodyguards and security stood at attention, clad in earbuds and visual reminders of the threat they posed. The teen eyed the hand guns they carried dismissively and began his mental countdown as a man with a red kerchief square folded nicely into his breast pocket coughed rather loudly and raised his fist to cover it, discreetly stretching his hand to extend and wiggle all five fingers before it rested once more at his waist.

Thirteen mentally followed the countdown and felt his adrenaline kick up painfully when the window beside him and its two neighbors exploded inward and the hired help began to pour inside through the breach.

_Time to shine!_

Waiting until shots had been fired, Thirteen winced sympathetically as one of the distractions took a bullet to the shoulder. Seven more meat shields left and Stark had already tapped his fancy wrist watch- signalling that it was past time to neutralize the target and get gone.

Thirteen allowed his mind to fall into the numb space of _fight_ and crawled smoothly across the cream colored ceiling, head canted to watch the struggle below.

There was a striking and distinctly _breakable_ -looking redhead holding on to the crook of his arm and barking something about getting to the car at Stark. Dismissing her as a threat was an easy decision on the assassin's part and as he dropped to the floor behind them he merely elbowed her and turned to Stark as she tottered on her heels and began to fall.

He had wrapped his arm around Stark's slender throat and gripped the side of his head. The assassin's slender fingers carded almost tenderly through the man's hair as he prepared to twist his neck at an impossible angle when the sharp bark of a fired weapon set off his sixth sense a moment too late.

An icy feeling crawled through his rapidly weakening right arm and he gripped desperately at the man's hair, only to growl and jerk when a heavy thunk and the feeling of overwhelming pressure gripped his opposite shoulder.

Tony had already dropped out of his grip and reached towards the redhead sitting where she had fallen with a small hand gun gripped between only lightly trembling hands.

"Come on Pep, time to run-"  
  
Thirteen aimed a heel kick towards his retreating head and when it connected allowed the momentum to carry him to the ground to avoid an arrow.

This had gone south _too quickly_. For _fuck's sake_ how could the intel his employer had given him been so _horrible_. His eyes listlessly followed the arrow's trajectory until it _thunked_ into the carpeted floor a foot away. He allowed himself a split second to acknowledge the sticky warmth beginning to seep into the spandex at his back.

 **It was a setup**.

Motherfucking HYDRA _owed_ him the pleasure of tearing the piece of shit apart if he survived this.

Stark was groaning on the floor and his arm candy had redirected the gun at Thirteen where her manicured finger was starting to squeeze the trigger.

Senses screaming a warning, the teen rocked his body forward to smack the muzzle towards the ceiling before gripping her wrist and pulling the vicious bitch to his chest. He stood gripping his hostage and kicked away a dazed Stark's hand groping at his ankle, carefully keeping the woman's form between him and where the arrows had originated from.  
  
_Fucking balcony that was purely decorative and it had to have been a bitch to cram in that small space for two and a half hours_ the assassin acknowledged with grim humor, eyes searching for the enemy that was almost certainly the infamous Hawkeye.

And where there was a Hawkeye... there was usually a- He grunted at the boot connecting with the back of his knee and clung to his hostage, grinning when Black Widow's fist brushed harmlessly part his and redhead's cheek.

Then a hand was yanking the redhead away from his now weak grasp and Thirteen decided _fuck the hit and run it's time to **run**_ a second before Widow straddled his waist and dealt a vicious punch to his nose.

And were those _brass fucking knuckles?!_

  
With a normal person the pain would be enough to have them writhing but Thirteen no longer had that inconvenient little problem so he blinked at the distinct wet crackle of his nose reforming around her fist and the involuntary twitching of his arms and bucked his hips to dislodge her, snapping his forehead into hers when she rocked forward.

She shouted in anger and squinted through the pain instead of recoiling, punching him again in his broken nose and then following up with a shot to the eye with her other fist.

Thirteen spat blood into his mask and pulled in a rattling breath through wet iron-tangey spandex and choked when a boot from an additional attacker stepped rather viciously on his throat and applied pressure. The assassin slammed the heel of his hand against the ankle with less than satisfying force and reveled in the shout that resulted. This time the first the struck his temple knocked the consciousness right out of him.

 

* * *

 

The shriek of his collar jerked him right back to awareness. His mind was screaming things that sounded a little too logical to him like "calm down before you get electrocuted till you're standing at the pearly gates" and other classics such as "even, steady breaths".

His body... his body was ready to fight to survive and the last thing he remembered was...

His _mask_ or _lack of_ was what he chose to focus on when his body dropped to the steel floor and began to seize in time with the electricity pulsing through his body. It meant that anyone and everyone could see the pink foam begin to flow over from his open mouth and the uncontrollable fear that clouded his brown eyes.

"What the _fuck_ "

"It's the collar! Take it off before his heart stops!"  
  
There was a clumsy scrabbling at his jerking throat and in his peripheral Thirteen recognized the notorious Bruce Banner with his nervous and harried expression before the man yelped in pain and a vein of green flashed across the flesh of his face.

"Step aside!" Another voice boomed and then the assassin found his crazily jerking limbs hanging suspended in front of the man known as Thor as black and rosy red crept into his vision.

It made a shape not dissimilar from an angel's halo hover around the blonde god's hair and the muscles of his arms bulged for what seemed like long moments but in reality was probably mere seconds before the shrieking and waves of electricity abruptly ceased. Then like a band-aid that had adhered to a bleeding wound the metal prongs of HYDRA's collar ripped wetly from where it circumnavigated the flesh of his throat and Thirteen felt himself fall to the floor.

And then he took his first free breath in five years.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please give me feedback. I'm giving fair warning now that this is going to be written in a LOOSELY accurate way. I have not read all of the comics nor watched all of the movies so I am in no way an expert. I haven't written any kind of story/fanfic in about twelve years and felt this story bubbling up after reading another Mercenary!Peter fic and was devastated that it was the only one I could find. It shook me and so I'm giving this a go.


End file.
